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All Rise...

The Charge

TENSE! TAUT! TERRFIFIC! Told the untamed Hemingway way!

Opening Statement

Film noir (if you agree with the comments in this DVD) takes the B movie to
its ultimate heights of artistry. These two versions of Ernest Hemingway's short
story are enjoyable and artistic, if somewhat flawed. It is hard, however, to
find a flaw in the DVD presentation of The Killers. The extras are
fascinating alone, but together they form a greater picture. In The
Killers, Criterion has provided a thorough exploration of film noir and its
impact on American cinema. For that alone, the package is worth obtaining.

Facts of the Case

In 1946, two wisecracking heavies enter a diner and terrorize the people
there. They explain that they're about to kill "The Swede," Ole
Andersen (Burt Lancaster's debut role). Ole doesn't show and the pair leaves the
diner. One of the customers runs ahead to warn the Swede. When he gets the news,
Ole complacently awaits the two grim men. He offers no resistance as the men gun
him down.

What could explain this conundrum: a man knows he's about to be killed, has
time to run, but awaits his killers? Insurance investigator Jim Reardon (Edmond
O'Brien) wants to find out. His investigation reveals a twisted labyrinth of
deception and betrayal, with remorseless vixen Kitty Collins (Ava Gardner) at
the center.

In 1964, two killers enter a school for the blind and gun down an
unresisting mechanics instructor, Johnny North (John Cassavetes). The elder
killer, Charlie Strom (Lee Marvin) knows something isn't right. He and his
partner Lee (Clu Gulager) use their skills of persuasion to find out why. They
learn about Johnny North's racing career, one million dollars, and how it all
turned south when Sheila Farr (Angie Dickinson) and Jack Browning (Ronald
Reagan) entered his life.

The Evidence

The cinematic realization of Ernest Hemingway's short story "The
Killers" is convoluted enough to do justice to film noir. Don Siegel was
originally chosen to direct the 1946 film, but could not due to contractual
reasons. Robert Siodmak was the beneficiary. Through expert casting and careful
cinematography, he created one of the masterpieces of film noir, though
Hemmingway's story only comprised the first couple scenes. Ten years later, a
Russian film student named Andriie Tarkovsky created a taut, literal translation
of Hemingway's story. In 1964, Don Siegel finally gets his shot at the story in
the first made-for-TV movie. But he includes no Hemingway dialogue and barely
references the previous versions of the movie.

All three versions are worth watching, but for different reasons. I'll start
with the 1956 version, which is my favorite of the three.

This short film by Russian film school students is impressive. It is the
most faithful adaptation of the story, using word-for-word dialogue and ending
where the story ends. It is easy to get too picky in a literal translation,
losing a cohesive view of the piece. This film did not fall into that trap.
Dark, brooding cinematography provokes tension. Warm shadows and pools of light
play off of each other. The actors are grim and make the clunky dialogue sound
believable. The film is lean, with no unnecessary words, actions, or shots. By
staying true to the story, the whole focus becomes the killing and what it means
when a man doesn't run. There are clues to the student origins, such as the
black cook being played by a white Russian in blackface. I know it isn't
politically correct, but I was impressed at the convincing portrayal. Overall,
this brief but competent film represents the truest adaptation of "The
Killers."

By comparison, the 1946 diner scene seems remarkably forced. When I first
watched The Killers, the dialogue completely turned me off. I got an
impression of campy absurdity from the whole affair. "You're a real bright
boy aintcha?" I couldn't help but laugh while I shuddered involuntarily. It
took most of the movie for that initial bad impression to wear off. That's a
shame, because it is a hallmark film and I wish the opening scenes hadn't felt
so wooden to me. It is ironic that the strength of the 1956 film is its absolute
adherence to Hemingway, while my least favorite part of the 1946 version is the
same material.

There is plenty to like about the 1946 version. Most noticeable is the deft
chiaroscuro of the cinematography. Woody Bredell does an impeccable job of
lighting and shadow placement. The film is enhanced a whole order of magnitude
through cinematography alone. Watching the shadows play in haunting reverie over
the faces and sets was enough to wrest my attention away from the action a
couple of times. The inky shadows become entities with life of their own,
grasping at the characters and draining their resolve. If you are a fan of
cinematic trickery, there is a two minute unbroken shot of the robbery. The shot
begins with a wide overhead perspective, swoops into the factory, up to the
robbery, and back out over the fleeing cars. This technical finesse is another
testament to the capabilities of the filmmakers.

Fine acting breathes life into the characters, which is good: otherwise,
we'd have no investment and the whole film would be a numbing drain. Burt and
Ava became big, bigtime stars and their skills are on fine display here. Ava was
sensual and alluring, if manipulatively cold. She is not my favorite femme
fatale of all time, but she looks great and does despicable things. Her solid
character gets trapped in her own deceit, which lends an element of desperation
and closure to the conclusion of the film. Burt is a "dumb but
lovable" boxer who is manipulated by circumstance, lust, greed, and luck
throughout the whole film. He is a fly caught in the web, so it's hard not to
feel sorry for him. His downplayed charisma leaks around the corners of his
character, giving us moments of genuine connection with Ole Andersen.

The story itself is convoluted and constrained by a narrow viewpoint. The
tale takes several paths which seem to enlighten us, but as the layers peel away
we learn how little we know. (The complexity of the story and the importance of
perspective is approximated in The Thirteenth
Floor, a modern work of true film noir.) This circuitous delivery feels
surprisingly modern: The film opens with an event, and then jumps into the past.
Through different vignettes we see facets of the story, and we eventually catch
up to the opening scene, which plays into a finale. Does this sound like Pulp Fiction?

Speaking of sound, the score is brooding and taut. Music keyed the right
note of tension in many scenes, but I lost track of the score from time to time.
Clearly, someone liked it: the killers theme was plucked to be the theme song
for the television series Dragnet.

The whole affair is aided by Criterion's superior job with the transfer.
Whether they got hold of a pristine master or just took their time with the
cleanup is beside the point: it looks razor sharp and truly black. I paused a
couple of dramatic scenes to gauge the detail and I was convinced. This transfer
is fine work, more amazing given the age of the film.

The elements come together to form classic noir film. The 1946 version is
widely hailed as the best of the three. From a cinematic and artistic point of
view, I agree. But I found the later versions more satisfying and
approachable.

Which brings us to the 1964 version. In many ways, it is the polar opposite
of Robert Siodmak's vision. Siodmak made a claustrophobic, haunting film cloaked
in shadow and rife with the painful mystique of human manipulation. Siegel flips
on the light switch and reworks the story into a faster, more direct tale.

The flaws with Siegel's version are immediately evident. This version was
made for TV. As such, it has a whitewashed color balance, over bright mise en
scène, heavy reliance on close-ups, cardboard sets, and cartoonishly bad
back projection. (The racing scenes are obviously two people in a car with
racing footage projected behind them.) Racing scenes? Yes, "The Swede"
is no longer a boxer, but a grimy race car driver. Lengthy racing scenes shift
the focus away from the knot of the story to traditional TV action. The classy
and manipulative Kitty is now a gold digging dame with a thrill for danger and
dangerous men. The story is tersely told and the direction is good, but the TV
elements make it feel like TV. (Funny how that works!) Artistically, this film
is inferior to both Siodmak's finely crafted work and the student version.

Where Siegel's version shines is in the way the story is told. The clunky
dialogue is gone, as is the artifice of the insurance adjuster. In this version,
the killers themselves want to know why Johnny didn't run. They sense a deeper
plot and opportunity. It is clean and believable. With the killers are driving
the story, we get visceral reminders of menace and violence as they interrogate
people.

This version of the killers contains another precursor to Pulp
Fiction. Charlie and Lee are menacing and efficient when they are
"on." Victims don't have a chance against their unfeeling brutality
and intimidating effectiveness. They terrorize blind people, beat women down,
hang people out of windows, and use any means necessary to get information. In
their downtime, the pair is wisecracking, thoughtful, and unguarded. They tease
and converse like friends. Lee is a health nut, Charlie looks forward to
retirement. The byplay between their professional and personal demeanors, their
quirky friendship, and the pulp roots of their cool attitude are remarkably
similar to Vincent and Jules in Pulp Fiction.

The 1964 version has great acting, though of a different vintage than
previous versions. Lee Marvin is in top form, hardboiled and ruthless. His
fearsome, calculated brutality equals his approachability. You find yourself
rooting for Charlie despite the despicable acts of violence he perpetrates. As
the climax nears, you sense a transformation in Charlie wrought by the answer to
his riddle. But he cannot escape his ingrained nature. The closing scene is
dramatic, ironic, and completely convincing. Clu Gulager provides edgy antics
that echo the wisecracking intimidation tactics of the first killers, but with
more success. Angie Dickinson's femme fatale is less sophisticated than Ava
Gardner's, but more believable in some ways. Kitty Collins was otherworldly,
never in Ole's class. Sheila Farr and Johnny North are somewhat better matched,
enough that you can buy into Johnny's obsession. John Cassavetes gives Johnny a
visceral heartache and believable anguish.

Two supporting roles deserve mention. Norman Fell (Mister Roper from
Three's Company) plays a sleazy gangster. The killers sweat him for
information, payback for all those snooping neighbor antics. But the real coup
de grace is Ronald Reagan as villain Jack Browning. Not only was this Reagan's
last role, it was the only time he played a villain. He is surprisingly
effective in the part, shedding his reservations and oozing calculated menace.
If you have political issues with Reagan, there's a bit of wish fulfillment for
you as well when Johnny North lands a punch right in his face. To me it was
creepy seeing the former president assaulted.

Though artistically inferior, the 1964 version has Siegel's clear vision
driving the production. The acting is pointed, the action is brutal, and the
tale is sparsely told. The players are brought down from the stratosphere and
given an approachability that enhances our connection with them.

Whichever version of the story you prefer is almost irrelevant, because the
real beneficiary is the DVD package. The extras are so well chosen and
complement each other so nicely that you could be forgiven for considering
yourself a film noir expert after watching them.

There are publicity stills, music/effects tracks, and liner notes by film
authorities Jonathan Lethem and Geoffrey O'Brien. There is even a radio
adaptation with Burt Lancaster and Shelley Winters. These extras are solid and
give a great sense of the story and production. A studio could be forgiven for
thinking the package complete with such extras included. But we get more.

Prepare to read. Excerpts from Don Siegel's autobiography, memos, broadcast
standard reports, and casting suggestions work together to provide startling
insight into what kind of man Don was and the climate he was working within. The
cast and crew suffered setbacks and critical venom. The picture was made for TV,
but was deemed too violent. Thus, it ran as a movie and was lambasted by
critics. The memos show Don's caring and control as he comforts Angie and makes
comments on the script and production notes. This is a rare glimpse into the
actual workings of Hollywood.

A pair of interviews gives amazing perspective on the films. Critic Stuart
M. Kaminsky integrates many of the facts about the three versions of The
Killers into a cohesive argument about the movies' relevance. A second
interview with Clu Gulager is simply bewildering. It is shot on video by his
sons, so the technical proficiency is slightly lacking (but better than I could
do). Clu is simultaneously uproarious, infuriating, and puffed with bravado. He
is remarkably candid, if biased, and gives a heartwarming account of the
travails and rewards of working with Don and crew.

The source material is helpfully included, so you can judge the fidelity to
Hemingway for yourself. This seems so simple, but is often overlooked. But the
real written gem is the essay notes on film noir by Paul Schrader. This
thorough treatise on film noir is a cohesive and influential landmark of
cinematic criticism. Reading it gave me an epiphany regarding film noir.

Each extra works in concert to breathe life in to the films on the DVDs. I
felt truly educated after having witnessed this stellar portfolio.

The Rebuttal Witnesses

I've mentioned that the dialogue bothers me in the 1946 version. Though it is
a personal gripe, the delivery of the lines grates on my last nerve. I was not
at all intimidated by the pair of heavies, they seemed ludicrously
non-threatening. I'm willing to chalk that bias up to personal issues. In fact,
I was willing to put the annoyance behind me and enjoy the rest of the film when
the second issue came to light.

In Hemingway's story, the whole focus of the piece is the men in the
diner—why they are there and what they are going to do. As a written work,
the premise is a good foundation for tension and menace. In the movie, however,
two hours of plot follows the opening murder. This shift in focus invites a
niggling question with no real answer: why did the opening scenes take place at
all? Heavies walk in and tell three witnesses what they're going to do. Then
they walk out, go to Ole's apartment, and shoot him there. Are these killers
rank amateurs? Why in Capone's name would they tip their hand like that, then
waltz away whistling to themselves? Live witnesses, people. Not only that, but
it gave their target warning. Furthermore, any killers worth their salt would
have waited for the Swede to walk in, followed him out, and capped him on the
sidewalk or in his apartment. It is a transparent MacGuffin of epic proportions
that soured my whole impression of the movie.

I've noticed this on several Criterion titles, so I might as well spill it
now. The liner notes are on shimmery black paper that collects fingerprints.
Every time I read the liner notes and put them down, I feel the urge to buff the
fingerprints away with a cotton ball and rubbing alcohol.

Closing Statement

Three fine films and a stellar extras package make The Killers a
masterpiece of DVD presentation. You will be entertained while a sophisticated
grasp of film noir principles seeps into your brain. Criterion has a knack for
bringing out the best in the films it releases, and this one is no exception. If
you are a discerning fan of cinema, this DVD package is a must have. For film
noir specifically, I have never seen its equal. Play it again, Sam!